


Capitulate

by uchiha_s



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-24
Updated: 2012-12-24
Packaged: 2017-11-22 05:25:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/606289
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/uchiha_s/pseuds/uchiha_s
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Mirror of Erised can show us our deepest, most desperate desires — but can it grant them?</p><p>2012 Secret Santa Tomione Fic Exchange - gift for Winterblume</p>
            </blockquote>





	Capitulate

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Winterblume](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Winterblume/gifts), [Tomione_Forum](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tomione_Forum/gifts).



> Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by J.K. Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros. Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

**Capitulate**

**for Winterblume**

 

  
The lift gave a small ping as a cool female voice announced that they had arrived at the Department of Mysteries. Hermione gave a stiff nod, gesturing for the man to go ahead of her, before following him off the lift.  
  
The Department of Mysteries had experienced a number of changes, and now, nearly fifteen years after the break-in and the subsequent battle between Hermione's friends and the Death Eaters, it looked quite different. Then again, the nature of its contained Mysteries had changed quite a bit, as well.  
  
Hermione observed Caelum Black swiftly step off of the lift, and into the Department of Mysteries with the confidence of one who had been there before, and then she watched him halt, looking slightly confused, as she had witnessed others do upon seeing this new Department of Mysteries.  
  
The odd thing was, Caelum Black had never been here before.  
  
Stop being so suspicious, she told herself, Caelum always looks that confident. Caelum Black never seemed to have had a single awkward moment in his life, and as far as Hermione could tell, the man had been born under a lucky star – amusingly enough, his very name meant 'Heavenly.' Following the Black family tradition of naming their sprog after constellations, Caelum had been given perhaps a more ambitious name than Sirius or Andromeda had.  
  
But it was fitting. Caelum was as close to perfection as anyone got. With his tall, svelte stature — just slim enough without being skinny, just athletic enough without being bulky — and his smooth, pale skin and dark gleaming waves, he was a perfect physical specimen. His features were angular, as though modeled off of a Renaissance statue, and his dark blue-grey eyes were as mysterious as he himself was. On top of his ethereal features, he had been graced with as sharp a mind as Hermione had ever encountered — it made her uncomfortable, that he could potentially outshine her. The competition was worsened by the clench of attraction that nearly buckled her knees beneath her every time the man so much as looked at her.  
  
But she was determined to be above such lewd matters. She had a job to do, after all, and she would never bungle it over a man — no matter how lovely he might be.  
  
“Well? Where is the mirror?” Caelum's voice echoed off of the walls as he leisurely strode towards the centre of the room. His expensive-looking dress shoes clicked along the marble floor and his robes billowed impressively. Hermione felt plain and mousy by comparison as she scurried after him.  
  
“I hope you didn't really think it'd just be lying around,” she snapped. Caelum made her tense, for a number of reasons. The attraction didn't help, of course, but there was also the fact that Caelum's smug and self-important demeanor got on her nerves. He seemed so bloody full of himself all the time, and though logically she knew there was plenty of evidence for him to be full of himself, she didn't like bearing witness to such ego. And worse yet, she didn't like that she was attracted to such ego.  
  
“Well, I didn't think I'd have to personally invite you to lead the way, either, but here we are,” he replied coolly. They turned to face each other. Maintaining eye-contact, Hermione tersely flicked her wand, and the room began to morph, as doors materialized around them. “Thank you,” Caelum said with an exaggerated bow. Hermione folded her arms across her chest.  
  
“You're welcome, good sir,” she said in a groveling, oily voice as she swept into such a deep curtsy that she nearly fell over. She had expected (hoped) that Caelum might find this funny, but he was already sweeping over to one of the doors. Hermione shot a scowl at his back and wondered if looks really did have the potential to kill. If they did, Caelum would be deader than dead by now, with all of the scathing glowers she had sent his way over the years.  
  
“Is this it then?” The desperation that leaked out of his voice was a bit peculiar and it unsettled Hermione. How had he known that that was the right door, anyway? It could have been a lucky guess, but this wasn't the first time that Hermione had suspected Caelum Black of being not quite what he seemed.  
  
“. . . Yes. It is,” she said uncomfortably, hastening to unlock the door. She didn't miss the look of calculated satisfaction that crossed Caelum's lovely face. It was an emotionless look of victory; it lacked heart. It turned Hermione's stomach. Filled with unease, she turned the knob.  
  
They were greeted by a very long hallway. Most people in this situation either would have not gone down the hallway at all, or at the very least, they might have simply waited for Hermione to lead the way. But not Caelum Black: with long, swift strides, he made his way down the dark corridor without a moment's hesitation. Hermione followed him again, waiting to see if he would also know just how to activate the door that would lead to the room containing the mirror.  
  
Caelum halted at the end of the corridor, his posture tensing slightly. He had hit a dead end, and it filled Hermione with satisfaction to know that he finally had been stumped.  
  
“Sorry, there's a spell to open the last door,” she said loftily, breezing past him and nonverbally casting the spell. Just as before, a door materialized at the dead end, and Hermione tried not to look too pleased with herself as she turned the knob and opened the door.  
  
The dark little room was empty, save for the Mirror of Erised awaiting at the far wall. Caelum hastened to it as Hermione muttered lumos, lighting her wand. The spark of light was not reflected by the mirror.  
  
“What do you see, Black?” she queried, shutting the door carefully behind them. Caelum turned away from the mirror, his robes swirling around him. Their eyes met and there was another one of those uncomfortable clenches of attraction that made heat unfurl in the pit of her belly. Her mouth went dry as his smooth, pale lips quirked into a grin. The thing that intensified her attraction to him was that, somehow, he seemed almost familiar, in a way she could not quite place, like a long-lost childhood friend.  
  
“That's quite a personal question, isn't it, Granger?” he parried smoothly. Flushing, Hermione fussed with the scrolls of parchment containing their joint notes.  
  
“I'm a bit afraid to look in the mirror, myself,” she confessed, growing redder in the face as she needlessly re-sorted their notes. Caelum was regarding her with interest now.  
  
“Why don't you look? I promise I'll protect you from your own dark desires. . .” He was tempting her now, reminiscent of the serpent in the Garden of Eden. Hermione inwardly snorted at the image. As if I'm oh so innocent, she snarked inwardly. With this in mind, she boosted her own confidence, and looked up to Caelum.  
  
“All right, then,” she said, setting her hands on her hips. “Why not?”  
  
“All in good fun,” Caelum agreed softly. There was something about the depth of his eyes in that moment that heated her blood and sent her heart racing. Deciding that she needed to stop swooning already, she shoved the scrolls at him (perhaps a bit more forcefully than strictly necessary) and turned to face the mirror, holding her breath.  
  
She was looking at herself, though her reflection had a round, large belly, and was balancing a little boy on one hip and holding the hand of a small girl with her free hand. She was beaming, her face flushed and her skin aglow with pure happiness. The children were both red-headed.  
  
It was like a swift punch to the gut; it certainly knocked the breath from her. She turned away, feeling her eyes begin to burn with tears. She could not look Caelum in the eye.  
  
“Well?” Caelum prompted impatiently. Hermione hid her face and discretely wiped at her eyes; she would not have Caelum, of all people, see her cry. Her pride simply could not allow it.  
  
“I saw myself filthy rich,” she said in a thick, wet voice. She swallowed and cleared her throat. When she turned, Caelum was studying her carefully. It was not a look filled with empathy, but instead one of cold curiosity, as though studying a twitching, nearly-dead specimen beneath glass. The look chilled her and it was a relief, almost. She did not want to be attracted to Caelum — frankly, she did not want to be attracted to anyone.  
  
“No, you didn't,” he said automatically. She wondered if he would dare try using Legilimency on her, and again she turned away. She felt sick, cold, and sad — so, so sad. She wished desperately that she had never looked in that mirror.  
  
“I don't feel so good suddenly,” she said, making a show of placing her hand on her forehead. “We should do this tomorrow. Come on,” she ordered. She began walking to the door, but Caelum was not following her.  
  
“You go. I'll try and get a head start.” His voice was too casual, and had she not been so suddenly uprooted, she might have acted on her suspicions and stayed. But as it was, she felt she might faint or be sick or simply burst into tears, and she could not do it in front of Caelum. Vaguely she waved him off, telling herself furiously that her suspicions about him were entirely unfounded anyway, and then she hurried out the door.

* * *

  
When she reached the Atrium, Hermione turned on the spot and Disapparated back to her flat, without even telling her boss that she was leaving. She was doing the wrong thing, she knew, and she would be sick with guilt later. But for now. . .  
  
She reappeared inside her living room. It was late afternoon, and as it was winter, it was already growing dark. Only shafts of light from street lamps from Diagon Alley lit up portions of her carpet; everything else was in grey and purple shadow from dusk. Feeling safe now, she told herself she could burst into tears.  
  
But it didn't happen. Instead, she was just overcome with a weakness she could not fight. Instead of forcing herself to return to work, she practically crawled to her bed, and hid herself under the coverlet. A few dry sobs came, and she shook and trembled for a while, before finally falling asleep.  


* * *

  
Tom stood before the Mirror of Erised, unsurprised to find himself as he had been before the battle of Hogwarts, at his strongest. His red, slitted eyes stared back at him, filled with victory. Hungrily, Tom tore his gaze from the Mirror and began sifting through the notes. The Mudblood, obnoxiously thorough as always, had outlined their notes with numbers and bullet points, and had even numbered the pages.  
  
Page number seven, however, was missing.  
  
He saw red in his fury. Had she been here, he might have been forced to let his little facade drop and Hex the living daylights out of her. The parchment crinkled as he clenched his fists, seething visibly. He forced himself to calm down as he closed his eyes, recalling each of Granger's motions. She had shoved the notes at him, hard, because she had been embarrassed and frustrated. . . When had she taken page number seven?  
  
Because, without a doubt, he knew she had purposefully taken page number seven. Granger was like him . . . in odd and often unexpected ways . . . and, like him, she never did anything by accident.  
  
He stormed out of the Department of Mysteries and took the lift back to the floor on which their offices were. It was getting late in the day, and as it was Friday afternoon, many people had already left. This was convenient for him. Tom swept towards her office, slashed his wand through the air, and watched the lock click out of place and the door creak open, hanging ajar for him.  
  
Hmm. . . This wasn't right. It should not have been so easy to open her door, if she had left the paper in her office. Already Tom was positive that she had not left that page in here, but he searched anyway. He overturned boxes and tore through drawers and flipped through books as his panic and rage increased. Bitch. She had taken the damn page from him, not trusting him, and the fact that she knew not to trust him only angered him further.  
  
Surrounded by the mess he had made in Hermione's office, he slumped down in her chair. Calm down, he told himself. Just calm down, and rethink everything. Hermione was not fooled by him the way everyone else was, and that was his fault. He had to try harder, he had to change his strategy for her. If only he had found out what it was she had seen in the Mirror. . . Then, perhaps, he might have a better way of gaining her trust . . .  
  
This was just a problem, and all he had to do was solve it.  
  
Tom rose to his feet and, with a wave of his wand, righted everything in Hermione's office. Even as he took his measured, calm steps out of the office and locked it, his keen mind was forming a plan already.  
  
“Black — here as usual. It's Friday night. Go home early!” urged Ernie Macmillan. He was not an Unspeakable but he did quite a bit of paperwork for the Department. Tom would have liked to Avada Kedavra Ernie for his overly cheerful and often pompous demeanor — really, how could one be so pompous after having been Sorted into Hufflepuff? — but that was not part of his act as Caelum Black: good-natured, charming, pleasant, witty, handsome, and most of all, brilliant Caelum Black.  
  
“You're right, Macmillan. . .” He paused, arranging his features into a look of anxiety, mixed just so with hope and trust. “. . . Say . . . Would you happen to know Granger's favorite flower? I know you two were close in school, and . . .” he trailed off, trying to look slightly embarrassed — this was not difficult, as he found the notion of buying a girl flowers to be deeply humiliating. Ernie's mouth twisted into a sympathetic smile, and he clapped Tom on the back. Tom imagined using the Cruciatus Curse liberally on Ernie, as this was the only way he could possibly bring himself to smile at Ernie's action.  
  
“Wouldn't know, Black,” he said cheerfully, his hand lingering on Tom's shoulders as he steered him toward the lift. “I knew you fancied her,” he added in a low, conspiratorial whisper. Tom almost choked on his own spit. Either Ernie was just pretending he had known, to seem like a real mate, or some part of Tom's Caelum Black act had given off the impression that he fancied Hermione Granger. Tom reassured himself that it was the former.  
  
“Really? Is it that bad?” he asked sheepishly, holding his breath to force his cheeks to color. Ernie gave another hearty chortle as the lift pinged, and the grate slid open.  
  
“Don't worry. Everyone knows she fancies you too, mate,” he said, pushing Tom onto the lift. “Just be yourself and she'll be throwing herself at you.”  
  
The grate slid shut; Ernie waved as he disappeared from view. Tom leaned against the wall of the lift. He contented himself with casting a tiny little Hex that would tie Ernie's shoelaces together. He couldn't risk too much of that sort of thing, but a little certainly went a long way. He wistfully imagined Ernie toppling over, preferably into a wall, and entered the Atrium.  
  
He already knew where Granger lived; he had done his homework, after all. Luckily, her flat was conveniently positioned in Diagon Alley. Tom Apparated to his own flat and changed into fresh clothes — he had to look like he had put in the effort, after all — and fixed his hair. His eyes roved over his appearance.  
  
His Caelum Black act was similar to his Tom Riddle act: handsome orphan, only this time, he was a Pureblood, fortunately. It wasn't hard to gain access to Black family records for any knowledge he might need, and luckily no Black family members were around to discredit him — at least, no reputable Black family members were even alive anymore. As for his past, well, that hadn't been hard. He had been home-schooled by his parents (a made-up sister of Bellatrix; he was sure she wouldn't have minded. . .) as they were worried about Lord Voldemort's second reign interfering with his oh-so-important schooling. With his Black family name but his Voldemort-free history, he had the favour of Purebloods and Mudblood-sympathisers alike.  
  
As for his appearance, he hadn't had to tweak much. He had been given his old appearance back, and he had simply Transfigured his hair to brown instead of black. No one was around who would remember what Tom Riddle looked like, save for Harry Potter and, potentially, Ginny Weasley. So he had to change his hairstyle a bit — instead of the neat, gleaming waves that he had styled impeccably in the forties, he now had a hairstyle more suited to one of the Black family: dark, mussed waves, a bit shorter in the back to maintain a professional look, with his bangs a bit longer to fall over his forehead. He changed into Muggle clothes to put Hermione at ease more — he'd look more casual this way. He changed into dark jeans and a dark sweater. He longed for the day he could regain his true appearance, but for now, his handsome young face was quite useful. . .  
  
. . .Especially for convincing young witches to give him what he wanted.  
  
Deeming himself ready to go, he Apparated outside and stopped by a florist. He debated for a long while on which flowers to choose. He remembered from his Hogwarts days that getting what you wanted from someone was all in the details. For example, getting old Sluggie any sort of candy would have been good — but remembering that he preferred the crystallized pineapple was far, far better.  
  
“Can I help yeh? Lookin' for summat to impress the missus?” an elderly wizard in heinous floral-printed robes popped out from behind a wall of flutterby bushes. Tom again arranged his features into a look of bashful embarrassment, and for added effect, rubbed at the back of his neck.  
  
“My girlfri— well, she's not exactly my girlfriend right now,” he began shyly, earning a sympathetic wink from the florist at which he inwardly retched, “is a Muggle-born and I think she might prefer Muggle flowers . . . But I'm not sure of what she might like best.”  
  
“And what sort of lady is she?” He already had this old fart all buttered up. However, this was actually a difficult question. How could one describe Granger? He would hardly call her a lady, and yet, she was certainly a woman. Oh yes, he had admittedly noticed the figure she was hiding beneath those robes, and it was most definitely to his own personal taste.  
  
“She's practical,” he began thoughtfully, “but she definitely has a hidden romantic streak.”  
  
“That's easy, then,” he said, rummaging through his wares, “tulips'll be it.” He held up tulips so dark of a violet that, out of the light, they appeared nearly black. “Howabout these?”  
  
Something about the tulips struck Tom. He handed the florist the money and accepted a small bouquet of the flowers. As he walked along Diagon Alley, examining the tulips, he reflected on how appropriate they were: tulips were of such a plain, unassuming shape — and yet the color of these made them stand out. They were subtly unexpected.  
  
Just like Hermione.  
  
Deciding he could easily use that as a line later — true or not, it sounded good, anyway — he hastened his steps over to where he recalled her flat was. It was above a little bookshop, not of the notoriety that Flourish and Blotts enjoyed, but Tom was sure Hermione had gotten lost in it time and time enough. The door leading up to the flats was on the left of the storefront, down a little alleyway covered in ivy. Tom raked a hand through his hair, fluffing it just so, and with that, turned the knob.  
  
The stairs were wooden and rickety; the walls were covered in peeling wallpaper of an unremarkable floral print. He knew Hermione would appreciate how worn and vintage everything looked in this building. She was so predictable in some ways — and so very infuriatingly unpredictable in others.  
  
He knocked on the door and steeled his will. No matter how amusing Granger was, his objective was to acquire those notes. And while it was prudent to try with honey this time, if she gave him too much trouble — well, then he would resort to his usual methods.  


* * *

  
There was a knock at the door; she heard it and was half-asleep, still under the covers, and almost assumed it was part of her dream. The knocking persisted, however, and slowly she came to.  
  
With a groan, Hermione sat up, her mattress creaking beneath her. She reached absently for Ron, out of habit, before the usual realization came: that icy, horrific understanding that made frosty fingers of awareness close round her throat and begin to squeeze.  
  
Ron is gone.  
  
This always happened, every time she woke up. Perhaps one day it would abate, but for now the wound was still too fresh. Hermione was strong, and she knew this, so she did not allow herself to succumb to the pain, though it was always tempting. Instead, she forced herself out of bed, as it came back to her why she was even in bed at seven o'clock on a Friday at all. That's right, she thought miserably as she caught her reflection out of the corner of her eye, in the vintage silvered mirror sitting atop her dresser. She had seen her heart's deepest, darkest desire in the Mirror of Erised, and it had nearly knocked the life from her.  
  
Her hair was mussed beyond help and her eyes were puffy. The little bit of makeup she had finally begun to wear, as per Ginny's insistence, was smudged round her eyes, and her jumper was hopelessly rumpled.  
  
Well, whoever has the nerve to bother me is just going to have to deal with it, she thought grumpily. She had kicked off her heels and she didn't bother stuffing her feet back in them; she simply stumbled to the front door to her flat. She noticed a run in her hose and that her pencil skirt was also wrinkled along the way, and when she did fling open the door, it was in a very bratty sort of way.  
  
Whatever she had been expecting to find on the other side, Caelum Black in pristine, subtly stylish Muggle clothes, bearing a large bouquet of tulips, had not exactly been it. Her mouth hung open rather unattractively as she gaped up at him in shock.  
  
“Good evening. . . Or should I say morning?” he greeted cheekily. Then his features assembled themselves into a sympathetic look that rung false on him. “I just wanted to apologize about this afternoon. I know it really threw you for a loop, and I'd like to make it up to you. . . . Can I take you for a drink?”  
  
He held out the flowers, looking almost shy for once. With all of her heart, Hermione longed to believe that he was sincere. He was almost sincere, he had almost convinced her. But there was something in his eyes, a glimmer of something greedy lingering there, that pushed her back from the brink.  
  
Still, she accepted the flowers. They were lovely and strange, in the same way which Caelum was.  
  
“Thanks,” she said flatly, brushing her fingertips along a velvety petal. “I'm a bit tired, though. . .”  
  
“Oh, c'mon, Granger,” he cajoled, stepping inside and grasping her free hand in his. His hand was cool and smooth and she felt her cheeks warming in spite of everything. “Just one drink? It'll be fun, I promise.” He said this so innocently; he looked so boyish. His blue-grey eyes were twinkling with the promise of fun.  
  
I am being ridiculous, aren't I? she thought with shame as she looked down at the tulips. Perhaps it was from her days of chasing down villains, or being around Harry — ever the suspicious one — too much, but she could not help but suspect every unfamiliar person. She looked up again. Caelum was being quite nice, nicer than any man had been to her in, well, a very long time. She sighed.  
  
“Alright. You won me over. Let me change — I fell asleep in my clothes, as you can see, and I look a mess.”  
  
“Take your time. I'll put these in a vase.”  
  
“Don't have one. Just use one of the glasses,” she called over her shoulder as she hastened to the bedroom.  
  
Tom watched her door click shut, and then hurried to the kitchenette. So far, so good. Everything was going according to plan. He had seen the look of capitulation in her eyes; his heart rate had slowed to a calm, steady beat when he had seen that change. Her brown eyes had softened; her posture had relaxed. He Transfigured one of her plain, utilitarian water glasses to a vase — the part he was playing required that he thought of such things. She would notice it, it would put her further at ease, and he would be one step closer to acquiring those notes without the complication of brute force.  
  
Hermione reappeared wearing jeans, trainers, and a Muggle-style jacket. Her makeup was still smudged and her hair was as wild as ever. From across the room, it struck Tom — and this was a shock — that when Hermione looked undone like this, it was a bit sexy. The notion was uncomfortable. He hadn't found a woman attractive in a long time, and Hermione was. . . problematic.  
  
No matter. He merely had to keep his goal in sight.  
  
“You look lovely,” he said, modulating his voice to sound just sweet enough to be polite, but just deep enough to make her blush. Perfect. Hermione looked down, fussing with the zipper on her jacket.  
  
“Oh, stop it,” she stammered. She rushed to the door so enthusiastically that she walked into the sofa. Tom had a good laugh at that at her expense — that at least was genuine.  
  
“Shall we walk? It's a nice night,” he suggested lightly, holding the door open for her at the bottom of the stairs. Hermione shrugged, and they settled into a moderate pace side by side along the cobblestone alleyway.  
  
“Well, I'm honored. I would have thought the illustrious Caelum Black would have bigger plans on a Friday night,” said Hermione finally. There was just enough sarcasm in her voice for him to get the point; it was just subtle enough that he could not call her out on it. He was a bit miffed by how good she was at that.  
  
“Bigger than grabbing a pint with Hermione Granger? Impossible,” he parried, serving her whiff of sarcasm right back at her. Hermione masked her look of irritation with a grin.  
  
“Well, I am a bit of a celebrity, you know,” she remarked lightly. Tom sniggered. Right. You helped Harry Potter defeat Voldemort. . . Allegedly. This was a bit of a moot point, considering he was standing right here. Not so clever after all, Mudblood, eh? Though truly, the person he had really thwarted was Dumbledore.  
  
He may not have the Elder Wand anymore, but at least he was alive. And where was Dumbledore? Still dead in the ground. Undoubtedly, he had triumphed. And he did enjoy the irony of the Wizarding world celebrating the ten year anniversary of his supposed defeat. Oh, he had even attended the festivities. At the memorial service, he had worked so hard to stifle his laughter that his eyes had been streaming, so everyone had assumed he was sobbing along with the rest of them.  
  
And yet, thinking of this brought the same flash of rage — I need that page, he thought fiercely, his fists clenching in the pockets of his jeans, his jaw involuntarily clenching. He looked sideways, at Hermione. She was pointedly looking away, observing the shops as they passed. Where was she hiding it?  
  
With enough firewhiskey in her system, either she would tell him, or he would simply make her. And, failing that . . .  
  
“You deserve more recognition, for what you did,” he said quietly. “Even I have heard the stories. Potter got all the glory — when really he could never have lasted one minute without you.”  
  
A telling flush spread across her pale cheeks. Tom was filled with the strange and unexpected desire to cup her cheek in his hand, to brush his thumb along the soft skin. The feeling was so alien that he did not know what to do with it. What did he have to gain from such an action? Nothing. Yet he still wanted to, so very badly. . .  
  
“I got more glory than I deserved. Besides, that wasn't why I did it.” She looked him squarely in the eye as they paused beneath the glow of a streetlamp. “I did it because Voldemort needed to die. His reign of terror needed to end.”  
  
The resolve in her words was like a punch to the gut, obliterating his previous desire and replacing it with a new one: to smother her, to torture her, to end her. His hands twitched with the urge to reach for his wand. He had to take a calming breath. Getting angry now would just ruin his plans. He had to be careful — last time, he had gotten careless, and it had nearly cost him his life.  
  
Instead of reaching for his wand, he did the very thing he had been thinking of before: he cupped her cheek, stroking it with the pad of his thumb. Hermione was too shocked to respond to his touch for an instant. Her pretty brown eyes widened as he noticed how soft the lashes were. He wondered, in a clinical manner, why he was enjoying this. There was nothing logical of it.  
  
“And I admire you all the more for it,” he replied, making his voice soft and serious. Hermione stepped out of his grasp, and though he again wanted to strike, longed to hurt her — for how dare she go against his wishes? — he also wanted to hold her cheek again, to feel the warmth of her skin beneath his cold fingers.  
  
“You're very forward sometimes, you know,” she muttered, turning away. “Come on, at this rate we'll not reach the Leaky before next year.”  
  
His hand, pale and cold, lingered in the air after her breath clouding before it, before he dropped his hand and hurried after her.  


* * *

  
Caelum had ordered her drink for her, and from their clandestine booth she had chosen, she watched him wend his way through the crowded Leaky Cauldron bearing two flagons of what she presumed would be firewhiskey. As her usual suspicions arose, she told herself vehemently that Caelum was probably just being sympathetic. It was classic to comfort a sick friend with alcohol, she mused, and perhaps she was just unused to people being so charitable towards her — especially good-looking men.  
  
It was natural that she would assume he had some sort of motive, given her history, but as she oft told herself, there was no factual evidence to suggest Caelum was anything other than a nice young man.  
  
He gave you flowers, pointed out a small voice in her mind that sounded suspiciously like the Sorting Hat's voice. Hermione scowled, recalling the way he had so casually touched his hand to her cheek. It had been more possessive than tender, and she had lived for herself and her personal freedom for far too long to accept such a signal of intended ownership. No man would boss her around, ever, and while she was flattered and pleased by Caelum's attentions, she knew she would have to set the record straight before anything progressed.  
  
“One firewhiskey for the lady,” said Caelum as he slid the flagon across the tabletop, where it halted in front of her. A bit of firewhiskey sloshed over the side and dribbled down the side of the flagon, pooling on the tabletop around it. When Caelum sat down on his side of the booth, a burst of his scent — a subtle, barely detectable hint of cologne and the musky male scent of his skin — hit her and, combined with the pungent scent of the firewhiskey, made her feel a bit light-headed in the best way.  
  
“I'm not much of a drinker,” she warned, raising her glass to clink it against his. With the motion, their fingers brushed, and his eyes darkened. The look was almost predatory as their eyes met over the raised flagons, but in a way, she did enjoy it. Let him try, her bolder inner voice crowed, even as her subconscious was shying away skittishly. Let him try and catch me. . .  
  
“Neither am I. . . but sometimes it just feels correct to be holding a glass of firewhiskey, don't you think?” He paused, nodded to her, “cheers,” he added, before tossing back a gulp of the firewhiskey. Hermione did the same, and almost relished the way it scalded her throat on its way down. Sometimes it did feel right, she inwardly agreed.  
  
With a cough, she set her flagon back down. Now that they had their drinks and had arrived, the awkwardness was creeping in. When at work, she and Caelum had it much easier: they could argue about things, he could tease her, she could get mad, and it was all very comforting in its routine, even if Caelum himself did inspire discomfort in her. Here, out of the context of their projects, it felt unnatural. How ought they to proceed, how ought they to go on? They were two ships in the night but lost at sea, within sight of each other yet bearing no help to either. Out here in the real world, their differences were brought to the fore, and they no longer had that safe commonality of liking the same things in their jobs. Out here, he was one of the handsomest men in the world, and the most charismatic, and one of the richest, if he had his hands in the Black family fortune like she assumed he did, and she was just plain old Hermione. She knew that in many ways she was an extraordinary girl, but in the context of a night at the pub, that was not so evident. Without a proverbial plaque next to her, listing off her many accomplishments, she was a plain girl with no special family name and hair in desperate need of a shining serum.  
  
Caelum was looking at her, his eyes searching her with such attention that it made her skin prickle with awareness.  
  
“Why are you staring at me?” she snapped.  
  
Caelum arched his brows, his pale lips quirking with some private inner joke.  
  
“Because I want to,” he parried easily. He leaned forward now, rested his elbows on the table, and clasped his hands together, his chin behind them. “So why does the Great Hermione Granger live alone, then?”  
  
Hermione stiffened and fidgeted with her drink. She took a sip to avoid answering the question, and was grateful for the burn of it.  
  
“I never said I did.” She paused and sighed. “I do. You're right. I used to live with Ron Weasley. You might know him, he's assistant to Head Auror, my friend Harry.”  
  
“And what happened to that?”  
  
His voice was gentle but pressing; she could feel that he genuinely wanted to know, though why he did, she had no idea.  
  
“We broke up,” she said shortly. “So what about you, then? You must have a sweetheart, with a face like that.”  
  
“So you think I'm handsome?” He did not look surprised at this. She rolled her eyes at him.  
  
“I am a lover of facts, Caelum. So?”  
  
Caelum settled back into his seat, looking thoughtful but amused.  
  
“I live alone. I lost my parents very young, to You-Know-Who's first reign. Ever since then, I have always relied on myself.”  
  
“So you're saying you don't need people, then,” she confirmed. Caelum smirked.  
  
“Not really. You must be able to relate. You do everything by yourself.”  
  
She found herself sipping at the firewhiskey again, and it was giving everything a new, pleasant warmth. Everything felt. . . golden.  
  
“So do you,” she pointed out. Caelum sniggered.  
  
“Touche. I suppose we can just call it even, then. We both know that the only way to do a thing right is to do it yourself —“  
  
“Absolutely,” Hermione interrupted, thinking with irritation of some of the idiocy she had witnessed of some of the younger Unspeakables.  
  
“— and,” Caelum continued, looking irritated that she had interrupted him, “we both live alone, even if it doesn't quite make sense.”  
  
“Well, for me it makes perfect sense,” she blurted out. As she spoke, vaguely it occurred to her that she should not have said that, and then once the words were out, she realized why, and her face flushed. Caelum's curiosity was burning through his blue eyes.  
  
“Oh?”  
  
“Forget I said that,” she snapped. “I just meant that it's not like I'm great at relationships or attracting people,” she blustered. She chanced a look back to his eyes. He looked at her with a measured, careful stare.  
  
“I beg to differ,” he said quietly. As much as his words brought heat forth, there was a certain lack of warmth to them — they were missing the emotion that might have accompanied that sentence from a different man. “Weasley was a fool to let you go,” he added. Again the words were mysteriously lacking in depth, and it made her heart pound with both fear and anticipation.  
  
“Who says he let me go? Maybe I let him go.”  
  
“You strike me as the type of person who would work for a relationship, instead of just flinging it away when it was not pleasing you.”  
  
The truth of these words, however cold they sounded, pained her. To make up for it, she took another liberal swig of the firewhiskey.  
  
“I did work hard to make it right,” she confessed, her eyes beginning to burn with tears as the world spun around her. She thought of her hand, holding the tiny freckled one of a child that would never be. She had to swallow to stop a sob from escaping her throat as that bottomless sorrow echoed within her, always present, occasionally pushed to one side — but never forgotten, never healed.  
  
“But?” he prompted, leaning in again.  
  
She took another sip of the whiskey, let it sit in her mouth, burning her tongue and gums, before she finally swallowed it. It burned worse this time on the way down. Her throat felt raw, ragged, yet her belly was warm and full of, it felt like, gold.  
  
“But Ron wanted something I am not physically capable of giving him,” she said bitterly. Caelum's brows shot up to his mussed hair in surprise. The words were waiting in her mouth, burning her tongue just like the firewhiskey had, yet she was hesitant to confess something so personal — something she had not even been able to tell Ron.  
  
Suddenly Caelum leaned back. He held up his hands.  
  
“If you don't want to tell me, I understand. . .” he began tentatively. His willingness to let the subject be was what did it for her.  
  
“Leading up to the battle of Hogwarts, I was tortured in Malfoy Manor,” she began. Caelum's expression was unreadable. “Because of the . . . methods. . . in which I was tortured, I am no longer capable of bearing children.”  
  
The words sank like lead between them as Caelum stared at her.  
  
Tom waited for some stroke of brilliance to come to him, but he had gone into shock. He had been pursuing her to confess what she had seen in the Mirror, and then he would comfort her and offer to finish the research for her, and then he would have those notes.  
  
He had not been planning for this. He had no idea of what to say. The raw pain present on her pretty face was repulsive to him, because he had no idea of what to do with it. He knew what his expected response would be, but he could not seem to find the words, in the face of such apparent anguish.  
  
Hermione watched Caelum's eyes widen in pure shock. She waited for him to offer the cliché words of sympathy and comfort, but he never did. He just stared at her in what, as far as she could perceive, appeared to be absolute horror.  
  
She was grateful, actually, that he did not hand over the usual honeyed, sugar-coated phrases as expected. He did nothing.  
  
“. . . Say something,” she prodded, though she was afraid of what he might say. She watched his adam's apple bob up and down as he swallowed, his knuckles bleaching as he gripped his flagon a bit too hard.  
  
“Is that what you saw in the Mirror of Erised, then?” he finally asked. “You with Weasley's children?”  
  
Hermione's silence was all the answer he needed. He knew his path now, he had to comfort her and tell her she was better off without Weasley, that she would meet a man who would be happy to adopt a child, he could even hint at that man being him if it buttered her up a bit more. . . But he couldn't do it. His clever mind with his overactive imagination was hurling images of what he imagined her assault had been like, and the pain burning acidly in her eyes and twisting her mouth were confirmation that his guesses were close.  
  
His plan had been faring so well — he was especially proud of the 'Weasley was a fool to let you go' bit — and now she had thrown a wrench in it. She looked at him squarely now.  
  
“The Mirror shows us the thing we want most, Caelum,” she began in her bossy, lecturing voice that he had fast grown acquainted with, “but it doesn't show us what is possible.”  
  
“Of course not,” he confirmed, even as he realized the gleam in her eyes was far too knowing.  
  
“Our research is simply to learn how it works, remember. We have nothing to gain from trying to make the images we see in the Mirror a reality.”  
  
“I couldn't agree more —“  
  
“— Which is why I am not letting you have page seven,” she continued loudly. Her cheeks were flushed with inebriation yet her eyes were as bright, sharp, and clever as ever. Even as he thought of how much he despised her in that moment, he was also hit with an uncomfortable and unexpected pang of profound desire. How had she known? How had she known to hide it in the first place, and how had she known that was what he was gunning for? He had been so careful, taken so many steps to ensure that his plans and designs remained hidden. . .  
  
“Who said I even wanted it?” Even to his own ears this sounded petulant, obvious, and childish. A knowing gleam flickered in her eyes and again he both wanted to kiss and strangle her. The conflict was overwhelming.  
  
“Isn't that why you're here?” As she said it, she realized she had known all along — her suspicions had been correctly placed, even if, in her fog of pain, she hadn't understood why. But the firewhiskey — and the confession — had lifted that fog from her, ironically. Everything seemed clear, even as the world was spinning off its axis. She was breathless with so many revelations.  
  
Tom's grip on the table's edge tightened dangerously. Everything had been going so well, so why was she suddenly not acting in accordance with his plan? He wanted to strike her.  
  
“I don't know what you're talking about,” he said flatly, as his clever mind scrambled to find a solution to this unexpected impediment. The jeers, laughter, shouts, and dim music of the pub around them faded into an irritating buzzing, piercing a hole in his concentration. Everything faded into a blur save for Hermione, who was gazing at him with a knowing, smug defiance in her brown eyes and a tipsy flush on her smooth cheeks.  
  
“You really thought you could just get me drunk and say nice things and I'd hand it over, just like that?” She paused, a shrewd look momentarily casting over her face. “I lived and fought in a war, Caelum. While you were. . . I don't know, taking ballroom dance classes and practicing Charms. . . I was fighting and risking my life every day. Did you really think I survived by having the wit of a Confunded five-year-old?”  
  
Time to regroup. He could see there was no way he was going to convince her that he really was a caring, concerned friend. He could also see that with Granger, honesty was the best tactic. She could too easily see through his lies.  
  
“Fine — I do want the notes. I don't see why I can't have them. We are the same rank in the Ministry, Granger, and you overruling me like this is practically heresy.” He leaned forward now. Hermione mirrored his movements. He could tell that the firewhiskey was instilling an unusual confidence in her — or rather, it was bringing her secret steely confidence to the fore.  
  
...He liked it.  
  
“Heresy? Don't flatter yourself. Everyone knows I'm your superior, even if our stupid placards don't spell it out,” she snapped. “I saw that look in your eyes when you looked over that page. Caelum, that Mirror is dangerous. I won't have you waste away in front of it! You have too much to offer the world.”  
  
“Who says I'd be wasting away in front of it? I'm a far cleverer person than you, Granger. You really don't think I could solve the puzzle of how to make those images a reality?”  
  
Hermione sat back and folded her arms across her chest. The action pushed her breasts up slightly, and Tom's fingers twitched with the desire to reach out and touch her. The fact that he had to order himself to focus was appalling.  
  
“I will admit,” she conceded slowly, “that it is tempting to try and work out some of those spells.”  
  
Tom smirked.  
  
“See, you want it too. I saw your face when you looked in the Mirror, Granger.” He leaned in closer, and acting on a whim, reached across the table and grasped for her hand. It was clammy; he could see now that she was more tipsy than he had first realized. He brushed his thumb over her knuckle, waiting for it to have the desired effect, but instead, she snatched her hand away.  
  
Clumsily she rose to her feet and picked up her drink. Tom arched his brows at her questioningly, filled with amusement at her inebriation.  
  
Then, she tossed her drink in his face.  
  
People were beginning to stare.  
  
“You are disgusting and foul for thinking you can just manipulate me into giving you what you want. I guess entitlement really is a genetic trait passed down through the Black family,” she said disgustedly. With that, she turned on her heel (albeit a bit clumsily) and stormed off through the crowd that was watching them with rapt interest.  
  
“Tough love, mate,” said a man nearby sympathetically, patting Tom on the shoulder. Tom mopped at his face and took in deep breaths. He considered a few choice Hexes before remembering that he still had to get those notes from Hermione.  
  
He rose to his feet and cast a charm to dry himself off, though the pungent, sharp scent of firewhiskey still clung to his skin.  
  
It appeared as though he would be taking those notes by force.  
  
He stalked out of the Leaky Cauldron, garnering a number of stares, but it didn't matter. It would simply look like a lovers' spat to the onlookers, and if he were to act too nice, it would be more suspicious.  
  
Hermione had Apparated, that much he could tell. He stood in the freezing mist, narrowing his eyes as he gazed into the distance in thought. She wouldn't have returned to her flat — too obvious. He also imagined that a number of Hexes were awaiting him if he did try to break in.  
  
No, she was definitely at the Ministry. . . it made the most sense. She would go there, anticipating him, and with the intent of heading him off and ensuring he did not try anything she viewed as foolish. Perhaps she would also try to convince him to abandon the Mirror of Erised project. Yes, he could picture it now: she would be standing in front of the Mirror, blocking his view, her arms spread, her hair wild as she vehemently warned him off the dangers of the Mirror.  
  
. . .But he couldn't just give up. It wasn't in his nature, anyway, but more pressingly, he needed the properties of the Mirror to learn how to survive.  
  
It had saved his life once. . . Could it keep him alive much longer?  
  
The icy hand of fear began to close round his throat and he found himself clutching at the collar of his jumper, pulling it away desperately for relief. Ten years ago he had found himself laying in a random classroom at Hogwarts, his nearly-dead body lying atop the desks. They had thought he was dead, but somehow. . . There he had been. With his dying breath he had raised himself up, as he felt his heart speed up with the futile effort of keeping him alive. He had been thinking of his warm blood and his bounding heart pumping that blood through his body. When he died, the heart would cease to pump blood through him, and slowly it would stop circulating, and then. . .  
  
He had choked back a gasp, when he had seen himself in a strange mirror across from him. His eyes, red and slitted, had gone wide at his reflection — it was him, but not him. It was him at age twenty-eight, when he had returned to Hogwarts to demand a job from Dumbledore, and hide the diadem. It was his handsome but weary face, looking at him, wearing modern clothes and brandishing a wand. . .  
  
And then he had found himself lying on the desks, no longer on the brink of death, and filled with an energy he had not felt in years, in place of the power he knew he no longer had.  
  
He was young again.  
  
He had escaped Hogwarts — it hadn't been hard, amid all the chaos of the aftermath of the battle. Yes, he had slipped past Potter and the others whom he had been so intent on finishing. . . It had been so tempting to stop, to steal a wand, to end them as he had intended. . . But his self control had been admirable as always and he had turned his back on them, and slunk off into the Forbidden Forest, to begin his life anew.  
  
Since then, he often felt his life force slipping away, like grains in an hourglass. He instinctively knew he was dying — after all, at this point, he was in his eighties, technically — and yet his desperation to remain alive, to make use of this strange occurrence, consumed him entirely.  
  
The Mirror had saved his life. . . But why? And how?  
  
He had to know.  
  
He had to know, so that he could make it do it again.  
  
Tom turned on the spot, again filled with that cold, cruel sense of purpose he had missed for so long. Death was near, but it would not be his.  


* * *

  
Hermione hugged her knees to her chest and held her wand, whose tip was lit, closer to her face for comfort. The Department of Mysteries was even more eerie at night, when few people were even inside the Ministry. On the other side of the room waited the Mirror of Erised.  
  
She could not bring herself to look at it. She knew if she did, she would never look away.  
  
Finally deeming it nearly time, she whispered, “nox,” and rendered herself invisible. She knew Caelum would be here soon. . . And for some reason, she had a desperately terrible feeling about it.  
  
Page seven of the notes on the Mirror of Erised lay in front of her, at her feet.  
  
She was going to burn it before his eyes, to prove that it was gone — and then that would hopefully end this nonsense.  
  
Hermione pressed a hand to her racing heart. Caelum's attentions had seemed rather sincere, and though she had brushed them off, acting as though they were nothing, they had affected her. She had wanted so desperately for someone to look at her like that, she hadn't had a man touch her so tenderly in so long.  
  
And she hadn't confessed to her deepest darkest secret to anyone before. Of all the people to tell, she would have never thought she would tell Caelum Black. Worse yet was that she was still quite drunk. She wondered if she were making a mistake, she wondered if she had overestimated Caelum's interest in the notes. Perhaps his interest had been intellectual, yet the greed in his eyes — they had almost glimmered blood red for one heady moment — had terrified her.  
  
It reminded her of something Ginny and Harry had once told her, separately. In their descriptions of young Voldemort — of Tom Riddle Jr. — they had said that his eyes were so cold and filled with greed and malice, in such an astonishingly lovely face.  
  
Just like Caelum Black.  
  
She shivered as she thought of all of the people that young Voldemort had fooled with his handsome face, and she wondered if she would have been one of them. She liked to think she was more clever than that, but. . .  
  
You are getting far too paranoid now. She shook off the feeling as the door creaked open.  
  
“Granger, I know you're in here,” said Caelum flatly, slamming the door behind him. He did not bother lighting his wand, and Hermione was hit with his evident comfort with the darkness. She saw his silhouette approach her as the hairs rose on the back of her neck. Why did she get the sense that she was in incredible danger right now?  
  
She revealed herself and lit the tip of her wand. Caelum's eyes coldly took her in; he was evidently entirely unimpressed with her and was not surprised at all to find her sitting there. She looked up at him and pointed to the notes.  
  
“I really think we should just get rid of these, Caelum. It'll do us no good to have them,” she began in a shrill voice. She hated how timid and fearful her voice sounded to her own ears — she knew Caelum was probably thinking the same thing. She snatched the notes from the ground and rose to her feet, backing away, as Caelum leisurely approached her, a predatory gleam in his eyes.  
  
Her back hit the wall.  
  
Caelum strode towards her and braced his hand above her shoulder against the wall.  
  
“Now, Hermione,” he began in a low, hurried voice, desperation leaking from it, “we can do this the hard way or we can do it the easy way.”  
  
“Which would be?” she prompted, lifting her chin to look into his eyes. A faint smirk curved his lips.  
  
“. . . Perhaps it would be best for your sake if you only learned what the easy way is. So, you can just hand that over to me.”  
  
“Not a chance,” she stammered before casting Fiendfyre. With a roar, a flaming serpent's head curled over the page. Caelum let out a shout and leapt backwards, his eyes flashing. He went to put out the Fiendfyre, but it was too late — the pages were curled, smoking, and turning to crumbling ash. They watched the floor as the fire died out, leaving the ashes there on the ground.  
  
When Hermione looked up again at Caelum's face, his eyes were gleaming red. Her heart nearly stopped as her breath caught in her throat.  
  
Then, Caelum lunged.  


* * *

  
The flames had curled around the pages, turning them to ash. Too many thoughts were buzzing round Tom's mind; he could not pick one out from amongst the others. He tried to breathe but found he couldn't. He was becoming dizzy from lack of oxygen. He looked at Hermione and was so filled with rage that he thought he simply might kill her, then and there. There was no need to plan ahead, no need to take his image into consideration — he'd kill her, and then move on.  
  
He lunged.  


* * *

  
Hermione let out a scream.  
  
“Petrificus Totalus!” she shrieked, firing the Hex at Caelum. He blocked it with an almost lazy swish of his wand. Damn, she thought frantically, dodging a bolt of red light from Caelum's wand, I can't say it out loud! Stupid, stupid, stupid. In her fright she had forgotten how to properly duel.  
  
The force of a passing Hex knocked her onto her back, and then an invisible force was pressing down on her, forcing her against the floor. Caelum stood over her, towering and intimidating.  
  
He knelt down next to her, his face inches from hers, studying her. There was a peculiar sensation of her mind being prodded at, and she realized he was using Legilimency on her.  
  
Occlumens, she nonverbally cast, as her wand was still grasped in her clammy wrist. Caelum's handsome face contorted in rage. Diffindo. Caelum let out a cry of surprise and his hold on the spell forcing her down loosened; she rose up again and scrambled backwards.  
  
“You stupid girl,” Caelum snarled, rising to his feet and advancing on her. The look on his face was purely murderous. Hermione stood tall in spite of her terror.  
  
“Caelum. . . You are scaring me,” she warned. Behind Caelum stood the Mirror of Erised, reflecting no light. Wildly it occurred to her that she could be done with this nonsense if she simply smashed the Mirror.  
  
It also occurred to her to be scared for her life.  
  
Caelum’s magic was in the air, thick around them, sparking dangerously. His hair was becoming wilder, his handsome features were twisting cruelly into something unrecognizable and monstrous.  
  
Tom stalked towards Hermione, unsure of whether he wanted to break her or fuck her. She looked appealingly like prey at this moment as she scurried backwards, her eyes flashing as she looked between him and the mirror.  
  
With a flick of his wand, the door clicked — he watched her look to it, draw in a sharp breath, and realize that he had locked it. He laughed at her fear.  
  
“And so the Mudblood realizes she has been cornered,” he murmured softly, striding towards her. “You will let me read your mind to find those notes, girl, or I will make you.” He brandished his wand pointedly.  
  
Hermione’s heart was beating wildly in her chest as she ran over her options, which with every passing moment were becoming closer and closer to zero. She didn’t want to risk an unlocking charm — she could guess that little old alohomora might not work in this instance — because she did not want to take any of her concentration away from Caelum.  
  
He had called her ‘Mudblood.’ Something was niggling the back of her mind, and again she got the feeling that she’d missed something; like a Remembrall was flashing at her and she couldn’t figure out why. What had she missed, what had she forgotten? Hermione was usually the very last person to miss or forget something — so what was this?  
  
“I thought you were different,” she said, stalling for time, as her heart rate increased further as Caelum approached. She dodged to the side, determined to ensure that she did not allow him to back her up against the wall again. Caelum easily switched directions, stalking toward her with a predatory gleam in his eyes, his graceful movements almost sensual.  
  
“Different? And how would that be?” he pondered silkily.  
  
He had finally cornered her again. Hermione gripped her wand in a sweaty palm. She was horrified to note that in this moment, with all of the terror and power surrounding him, she had never found Caelum Black more alluring — and she should have only been filled with disgust for him. Wasn’t he threatening her? Wasn’t her life in jeopardy? . . . Hadn’t he just called her ‘Mudblood?’  
  
“I didn’t think you were so cruel like the rest of your Pureblooded family,” she spat bitterly. A look of pure, ugly triumph crossed Caelum’s face as he raised his wand.  
  
“Oh, but that is the thing, Granger — I’m so much more than just a member of the Black family.”  
  
His eyes flashed red again. In a panicked moment, Hermione found herself imagining her own death as she was now being confronted with her own mortality. She realized now that she was truly in danger of dying. If she refused Caelum, he would kill her. There was no doubt in her mind about that.  
She’d had to take a page out of Harry’s book, she realized, if she wanted to survive: she’d have to be a bit reckless.  
  
Of course, she could certainly be a bit more clever than just to toss out a tired old ‘expelliarmus’ as Harry was known to do.  
  
She fired a spell just as Caelum’s lips formed legilimens. In midair, their spells collided and emerald and ruby sparks exploded, raining down on them, as jets of magic ricocheted off the walls, lighting the room up brilliantly.  
  
And then one of the jets hit the Mirror of Erised.  
  
Caelum and Hermione both froze as the Mirror’s surface gleamed blood red; in that moment, splintering cracks formed in its surface as they saw their reflection: Hermione, with her cheeks smudged and her hair wild, and . . . Voldemort standing where Caelum ought to have been.  
  
She knew from the chilling silence that Caelum was seeing the same thing that she was. Still frozen, she let her gaze drift to look at Caelum out of the corner of her eye. He was still tall, dark, handsome Caelum, so why was the Mirror showing them Voldemort?  
  
“What did page thirteen say about the Mirror?” asked Hermione in a forcedly level voice, though she already knew the answer.  
  
“That when two opposing types of magic combined are used on the Mirror, it shows the exact opposite of what it normal shows,” Caelum replied in a similarly flat voice. “In other words, it is even more revealing than a normal silvered mirror. It shows things exactly as they truly are — it strips away false appearances, fronts, and reflections of our desire to appear a certain way outwardly. All the viewer is left with is the contents of their soul, bared. The Mirror of Erised, when damaged, shows things as they truly are.”  
  
“Right. That is what I thought,” said Hermione casually, her voice just short of breaking in absolute hysteria.  
  
They turned to face each other now. “I suppose you will understand that I can’t allow you to leave the room, then, or research the Mirror further,” she continued, keeping her voice absurdly professional. Caelum’s — no, Voldemort’s — lips curved into a cruel grin that she no longer found handsome. The world was spinning — this had to be a nightmare — she’d wake up any second in her bed — how was he alive? — was it even possible? — it couldn’t —  
  
“It doesn’t require Legilimency to see you’re trying to work this out,” he remarked with amusement. Hermione considered simply using Avada Kedavra and being done with it — but then she’d be put in Azkaban; without the evidence, no one would believe her. They’d just find a broken Mirror of Erised and a dead beloved Caelum Black and she’d be the one with the figurative blood all over her fingers.  
  
She’d have to let him escape, if she wanted to avoid Azkaban.  
  
So now she was faced with a moral question: she could kill Voldemort and be thrown in prison for the rest of her life, or she could let Voldemort escape. . . And likely, in the process, allow him to end other lives. But he hadn’t killed anyone yet, as far as she knew — of course, that didn’t mean he wouldn’t.  
  
She had never felt more trapped.  
  
“Since you have clearly realized you can’t kill me,” he began in a velvety voice as he began to circle her thoughtfully, brandishing his wand — which she now realized was yew, “I propose we make a deal.”  
  
“And that would be?”  
  
He stopped behind her, his breath warm on the soft skin of her neck. The hairs on the back of her neck rose as her fists clenched. A strange calm had settled over her as she considered how much danger she had always been in. Her mind threw at her images of all the times she had defied him, teased him, caused him trouble — now she knew he had only halted from killing her because it would have not been pragmatic.  
  
“I tell you how I was revived, you help me solve how to live, you don’t try and finish me, and you don’t have to go to Azkaban.”  
  
“Keep in mind that if you kill me, you will be put in Azkaban as well,” she said dryly. She turned to face him head-on, and relished the way his eyes widened slightly in surprise. “I don’t believe even you could talk your way out of the Ministry finding my dead body here in the Department of Mysteries.”  
  
His eyes glittered with something cruel. “And that is not an invitation to try, either,” she added.  
  
“Well, if Granger says I can’t do it, then. . .it must really be against the rules,” he said sarcastically. His expression then hardened. “That is my bargain, Mudblood, and you can accept it or not.”  
  
“I have some things to add,” she said coolly. “Number one: you will not call me Mudblood —”  
  
“— In public —”  
  
“— EVER. Number two: if you so much as pretend to kill anyone, I will find a way to reveal your identity.”  
  
“Does that rule extend to Umbridge?”  
  
Hermione had to press her lips together to keep from laughing.  
  
“No, she’s mine,” she finally conceded, earning a sensuous, baritone laugh from Caelum. Even with her horror at being faced with Voldemort, she could not help but practically drool over the prospect of being able to mine him for more information. Yes, he had done some terrible things — but he knew so much, with a mind like that. . .  
  
“So do we have a deal then? I’m afraid the alternative isn’t looking too good for you, darling. . .”  
  
“. . .deal.”  
  
Neither suggested making the Unbreakable Vow, because they both implicitly knew that they were planning on betraying each other.  
  
They shook hands, their gaze level.  
  
. . . Really, it was just a question of who would betray who first.  


* * *

  
“So we’re finally getting to meet this Caelum that we’ve been hearing so much about?” Ginny squealed, clinging to Hermione’s arm. Hermione rolled her eyes along with Harry and Ron.  
  
“For the last time, yes,” she sighed, before pushing open the door to the Leaky Cauldron. The crowd parted for one burning moment, and across the room, sitting in a booth in the back, was ‘Caelum Black.’ The artist formerly known as Voldemort, Hermione thought with some amusement. Their eyes met and he nodded, and she made her way through the throng of chatting people to him, with her friends at her heels.  
  
“So. Erm. Caelum, meet Ginny, Ron, and Harry. Everyone . . . meet Caelum.” Hermione stiffly gestured between them and watched Ginny go pale as death beneath her freckles. A similar fear seized Hermione: Voldemort had assured her that his appearance was different enough that no one would recognize him, but what if his magical signature alone were enough . . .?  
  
“Nice to finally meet you three,” said Voldemort cordially. He shot Hermione a is-this-what-you-wanted look out of the corner of his eye before adding a somewhat strained smile. “Are you quite alright, Miss. . . Weasley?”  
  
“It’s Potter now,” said Harry after clearing his throat. He looked a bit pale and unsteady as well, and kept rubbing at his scar absently. Ron, on the other hand, appeared absolutely fine.  
  
“They eloped. Nearly killed mum, but you know how mums are,” said Ron with his usual insensitivity as he plopped down heavily on the other side of the booth, and looked at Hermione expectantly. “So? Anyone going to grab me a butterbeer?”  
  
“Oh get it yourself, you misogynistic prat,” snapped Ginny, apparently having recovered from her shock. She sat down next to Ron, however, as did Harry, leaving Hermione to sit next to Caelum.  
  
“We’ll get the drinks, since it’s apparently such a problem,” Hermione said, grabbing Caelum’s jumper sleeve and nearly vaulting him out of the booth.  
  
“Well? How was I?” Voldemort prompted as they pushed their way through the crowd (Hermione had no doubt that their journey was aided with a few subtle well-placed Hexes on Voldemort’s part).  
  
“Four firewhiskeys and two butterbeers, please,” Hermione called across the bar. Tom slid the drinks down along the counter and Hermione and Voldemort took them. She turned to him now, her eyes roving over his handsome face. “And you were marvelous — I almost couldn’t tell you once were a mass-murderer,” she added cheerfully, and threw her head back and laughed at the thunderous look on his face.  
  
Voldemort watched her weave back towards their booth, and considered her retreating form. It was not as though he actually planned on staying like this, doing research at the Ministry, but while he waited for a way to start his real plans, he was not exactly suffering. He appraised her curved form appreciatively. Oh yes, he liked this witch — perhaps best of all.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



End file.
